Chapter II: Part 2

“But rules like that are crazy. I never heard of dating only boys who belong to fraternities. Gee, next week when classes start, I’ll meet a lot of independents. It’s worse than racial prejudice.”

“Robin, tell me something. Why do you want to join a sorority?”

“My mother wants me to. She never had the money when she was in college. I guess she always wanted to make up for it by having me belong.”

Marsha walked toward the window and watched the trees in the yard near the side of the house. “If you don’t believe in all that a sorority does,” she said, “one way to fight is to fight from the inside—where the rules and regulations are being made. Sometimes it takes a while. But there are good things about living here like this, and you can’t fight effectively if you don’t keep those good points in mind.”

Robin looked up at her and smiled. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I’m a pretty clumsy rebel.”

As she left the suite and passed the phone in the hall, it rang shrilly and she lifted the arm from the cradle. It was for Kitten Clark, and reaching up for the buzzer on the left of the booth, she found the name and pushed the tiny button. A voice called down, “Got it on three. Hang up on two, please.” Robin walked past a room where some pledges were gathered, learning the words to the Tri Ep song. “Tri Epsilon is a friendly house where every girl’s a queen,” they sang in close, harmonic tones, raising their voices slightly for the next line: “And all the frat men love her.”

Chapter Three

“... and this,” Kitten Clark said, “is Susan Mitchell.”

Mitch stepped forward there in the front hall of the Tri Ep house and shook hands with Dirk Henry. He was a plump, short person, and walking along beside him, Mitch felt like a large wire-drawn giraffe. When they reached the front steps, he said, “Clive’s car is down the street. We’re going to the house.”

“What fraternity are you in?” Mitch asked. “Kitten never even told me what house you were from.”

He opened the jacket to his coat and displayed a plain oval-shaped silver pin, fixed to the pocket of his shirt. “Recognize it?”

Mitch stammered. “I’m afraid I’m not too good at spotting them yet.”

“Sigma Delta,” he said proudly. “It’s just the pledge pin. That’s why you didn’t recognize it. Here’s the car.”

Bud Roberts was president of Sig Delt. Would he be at the party? The thought lost its force when Dirk opened the door, and Mitch saw Robin Maurer seated in front with Clive.

“Hi, Mitch,” she cried. “Want you to meet Clive McKenzie, my unlucky blind date for the evening.”

They drove for a few blocks until they reached a palatial two-story brick house. Oak trees towered self-consciously over the entrance and cast shadows on the Greek letters ΣΔ, outlined in sparkling white lights.

As they piled out of the car and went up the walk, there was a sweet aroma of roses and honeysuckle.

“Smells marvelous,” Mitch said.

“It’s Henry, our houseboy. He has a passion for flowers. Keeps the yard in damn fine shape, Henry does.” Dirk’s tone sounded forced and pontifical, and Mitch glanced sideways at him to see if there were any trace of a smile, but he was dead serious.

At the doorway, a small old woman waited to greet them. In the harsh light of the chandelier inside the entrance, her white face looked heavily powdered like the top of a sponge cake, and her silver-colored hair had a strong purple tint.

“This is Mother Carter,” Dirk said. “How’s the party going, Mom?”

Mitch and Robin shook her hand and passed on with the boys through spacious rooms with parquet floors to a winding stairway that led downward.

“You’ll like the Tack Room,” Clive assured them. “Cost Sig Delt three thousand.”

Robin groaned significantly, and it was hard to tell whether she was expressing awe or disgust.

The Tack Room was lined on either side with large red leather booths, and around the walls on oak shelves there were pictures and trophies that were difficult to distinguish in the dim lighting. At the head of the room there was a large circular bar. Behind this a pledge worked, opening bottles of Coke and soda. Liquor was forbidden at fraternity parties, and so the flasks were hidden at the tables where a score of couples huddled together. Everyone was singing when Mitch and Robin entered with their dates.

“Roll me over, Yankee soldier.
Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.

“This is number three and my hand is on her knee,
Roll me over, lay me down and do it again.
Roll me o-ver in the clo-ver,
Roll me over, lay me down, and do it again.”

“I’ll get the setups,” Clive yelled back at them as they settled in a corner, and he pushed his way through the crowd. Robin sighed and said, “Last night I drank chug-a-lug. Not tonight!”

Dirk joined the singing enthusiastically, and Mitch stared around the room, wondering if Leda and Jake were there. And Bud Roberts. Across from her, a girl with long raven hair pulled away from the lean boy who was whispering in her ear. “Kee-ryst!” she exclaimed, and the rest of her words were gobbled and gone amid the singing and the pounding clink of bottles and feet tapping time with the music.

An hour dragged, monotonous and unrelieved, with the same songs and the sour taste of the whisky that Mitch barely touched. Clive and Dirk sang every song, stopping only to swig their drinks and refill them, and point out the various “brothers” who were big shots—football players, and the editor of the campus humor magazine, and a graduate student who was a Phi Beta Kappa, and, inevitably, Bud Roberts. Clive pointed at him, and Mitch looked and saw him, leaning against the wall, grinning crookedly. He began to weave his way toward them, slowly, at an amble, his hands stuffed into his baggy pants pockets, his green checkered sports shirt open at the neck.

Mitch said, “I think I’ll go to the powder room.” She had noticed the red arrow and the dark letters on the wall announcing, “Women go this way!” Dirk nodded as she rose to leave, and Robin said, “Wait a second, friend, I’ll string along.”

“One at a time,” Bud Roberts said, standing squarely in front of the two girls. “It’s a house rule. One at a time.” And then, “How are you tonight, Miss Mitchell?”

“Fine.”

“Good! Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll lead you to our ladies’ room.” He grinned at Robin. “You’ll have to wait.”

Mitch’s cheeks grew hot as his hand held her elbow and pushed her along. The singing was loud and painful in her ears.

“How do you feel tonight?” he said. “Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you’re sort of a challenge to me.”

“Why don’t you forget it?” Mitch said. “Why don’t you just be a gentleman?”

“Spoken by a true lady, at the door of the ladies’ room.”

Mitch pulled the door open and slammed it shut, thankful to be rid of him, to have the touch of his hand off her arm. Inside, the room was feminine and attractive, with small dressing tables, flowered couches and chairs, and a downy blue rag rug with green trim. Her examination of the handsome room was arrested suddenly as she stood before the mirror and reached for her comb. There, to the left of her, a huge cardboard figure dangled brazenly. It was that of a man, naked except for a flapping fig leaf across which was written, “Lift and look.”

Automatically, her hand reached for the fig leaf, and drew back. Her curiosity was mixed with shame and guilt. She ignored it and began combing her hair, fixing her lipstick, and powdering her nose. It remained to obsess her in a peculiar way. Again she glanced at it, and then, remembering that Bud had said, “One at a time,” she realized that no one would see her examine the figure, and once more her hand touched the loose leaf. Slowly and fearfully she raised it. Suddenly and swiftly a fierce bell deafened her ears, ringing out a vibrant wail throughout the Sigma Delta fraternity house. Gales of laughter and shouts started in the room outside, and Mitch drew back and stood shocked, her hands shaking with scalding embarrassment.

The voices and calls persisted and Mitch sat down for long, frenzied minutes. She could hear them coming closer until they stood at the door, singing.

“Never lift a fig leaf, lady, let the poor guy be!
That is,
That is,
If it’s idle cu-ri-os-i-ty!

“Never lift a fig leaf, lady, just to steal a glance,
Unless,
Unless
You fol-low with ro-mance!

“Now! Ain’t you coming out?
Ain’t you coming out?
Ain’t you ev-er, ev-er comin’ out?”

She knew that she could not. They were waiting for her and she could not get up and walk to the door and pass them. Not now. It was a joke, she realized that, but it was _his_ joke. And everyone would be shaking with laughter, knowing what she had done. Anger mounted in her, and her hands wrung with a seething anxiety. Over and over they sang the song and shouted and she sat there. Very gradually the voices died away and then it was finished and they had left the door. Short, round tears loitered in the corners of her eyes and escaped down her face as she blotted them with her handkerchief and straightened herself. She listened at the door, and the noise was not there, but back at the booths where they all were. Opening it a few inches, she saw that Bud had waited. There was a look of smug defiance on his face.

“C’mon,” he said. “No one will bother you now.”

She slammed the door shut harshly and held onto it from the inside. He was the last one she could look at—his face leering that way, the slimy, suggestive tone, and the hand that reached for her.

“By God, you’ll come out! You’ll come out!” he shouted, and heaving himself at the door before she could twist the lock and secure it, he held her arms back and kicked the door shut behind him.

“Damn you,” he said, the sick, sweet odor of liquor flowing from his mouth. “Damn you and your damn innocence! You wanted to look, didn’t you? By God, look, then!”

Mitch wrested herself free, and grabbing the china vase on the table, she brought it down on his head, and left him staggering back against the wall. Then, running, she tripped up the stairs, past the ghostlike face of Mother Carter, through the door, and beyond the gangling oak trees. She ran down the street in the tar-black night.

When she stopped running, a block away, the near lights of the stadium told her she was streets away from the Tri Epsilon house. Gasping for breath, her body perspiring feverishly, she stumbled along until she saw the white house on the corner. As she approached it, she noticed the sign ΔΡ, and she remembered Fredna, the girl she had met at the hotel during rush week. Instantly, she quickened her pace and climbed the rows of brick steps. A couple sat on the porch, and the girl looked up at Mitch as she passed the swing where they were.

“May I help you?” she said, standing, coming toward Mitch so that she could view her in the light of the porch.

“Fredna Loughead. I was—looking for her.”

The girl said, “Fredna’s on a blind date tonight. She won’t be home until closing hour. Can I take a message?” She had a quizzical expression in her alert eyes.

“Well, I—I guess I’m lost.” Mitch stuttered nervously. “I’m a Tri Epsilon pledge. I can’t find the house.”

“Really?” the girl said, her tone gaining interest, her lips parting in a ready smile. “Well now, how did that happen? You’re a pledge, you say?”

“Yes, I am. I—I had a fight and—well, I just got lost.”

“A fight? That’s terrible. Why, that’s awful. Look, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Biff and I will walk you home. It’s just a few blocks, and we were going to take a walk anyway, weren’t we, Biff?”

The boy got up from the swing and studied Mitch. “Yes,” he said. “We’d be glad to walk you home.” There was a bright jeweled pin on his sweater. “I live right across the street from you. Delta Pi. We’re neighbors.”

“And,” the girl said in sirupy tones, “you can tell us all about this fight of yours while we walk along.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Mitch said as they started down across the damp grass. “I guess I just lost my temper.”

* * * * *

Bud Roberts reeled back against the pale blue wall, and felt the warm trickle of blood on his forehead. He touched it with his finger and stared at its vivid color and stood there, slumped unevenly, resting. The door was partially open and the sound of many feet came rushing to him, and he straightened himself and walked into their midst, not stopping the blood as it ran. A girl shrieked out at the sight of him, and two young men rushed to aid him as he walked up to them all.

“You O.K. fellow?”

“Yeah,” Bud drawled, “I’m O.K.”

“Man, she really bruised you.”

They stood about him gaping up at his wound. Bud said, “Where’d she go?”

“She took off,” Dirk answered. “She took off like a bat out of hell, up the stairs and out. Robin here tried to call to her.”

“Are you a Tri Ep?” Bud asked Robin. “Are you one of that bunch?”

“Yes.” Robin was uneasy. The crowd thickened. She wondered where Mitch had gone. “Why did she hit you?” Robin said incredulously. “I didn’t even know she knew you.”

“Because she’s a poor damn sport, that’s why. Every night I plug old cardboard Adam up for one girl to bite on it, and she was the wrong girl. Then when I made the men stop singing, and quieted them down so she wouldn’t feel bad about coming out, she slugged me. Well, by God, she’s the last Tri Ep to come to this house.”

He took out his handkerchief and held it to the blood. Mother Carter had come downstairs and squeezed through the crowd and seen him. She caught her breath in a quick hissing sound and ran to take his arm. With exaggerated caution she led him from the room, saying she hoped it was not a concussion, saying the young lady should be reported. “And she scooted right past me, too,” she said, “and the devil was in her eyes.”

Clive McKenzie turned to Robin. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think I’d better drive _you_ back to the Tri Epsilon house.”

His voice was stiff and brusk, and members of other sororities stood beside their dates watching as Robin picked up her coat and Mitch’s coat and walked toward the stairway with Clive.

“I guess you realize,” Clive said as he opened the car door, “that this means trouble for your house. Probably a black-listing.”

Robin said, “I wonder where she went. It’s so dark and everything.”

“Hits a guy with a flowerpot! God!” Clive cursed. “Goddamn!”

* * * * *

The meeting lasted until two o’clock that morning. When Leda came upstairs, Mitch was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hands clenched and shaking. Leda said nothing. She put her shoes in the flowered shoe bag behind the closet door and wiggled out of her skirt. Mitch watched her and felt strange, as though she were in a play on a stage and the people in the audience were waiting and watching and she did not know her lines. “I’m sorry, Leda,” she said finally. “I’m awfully sorry I got everyone in a jam.”

Leda took out her brush and the bobby pins from the small yellow box on the top of the bureau. “I guess I just don’t belong,” Mitch continued. “I guess I just don’t know how to act right. I don’t know much about jokes like that, and Bud Roberts and the way he acted after. Look, Leda, I am sorry.”

“I’m afraid,” Leda said into the mirror, “that it doesn’t help anything being sorry. You really made a mess of it. You know, the Delta Rhos _aren’t_ our best friends. You would pick that house to run to.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. Just that I had a fight. Honest.”

“And Biff Collins. He _would_ be in on it. You couldn’t have picked two worse people to help you find your way back home. You didn’t have to tell them anything. They’ll have their own stories circulating before morning. God!”

“Is there anything I can do?” Mitch looked at the beautiful girl and her eyes ached where there should have been tears.

“Yes,” Leda answered coolly. “There is. You can grow up! You can forget yourself and come out of your lousy damn shell and grow up! Don’t you think I know how you felt? Don’t you think I know what Roberts is like and how you felt? Do I look dumb and stupid, Mitch? Mitch, look at me! Do I look dumb and stupid?”

Mitch stared. The tears had welled up and were held fast and there was a heaviness about her lids and the drummer was back inside her, beating away fast. Leda stood before her in her sheer white pajamas with her face red from excitement and her voice harsh and sharp.

“No,” Mitch answered her. “I’m the one that’s dumb and stupid, I suppose. But I can’t help it. Everything’s so dirty and nasty. I can’t understand—”

Leda cut in and held Mitch’s shoulders. “You make me sick, Mitch! You make me retch! I bet you still think babies grow under cabbage leaves. Well, they don’t. I’ve got news, Mitch, they don’t grow under any goddamn cabbage leaves. I had to learn it! I had to learn it the hard way. Goddamn you, anyway!”

The tears broke then and came to Mitch’s eyes in a great rush and down her cheeks onto her slip and she said Leda’s name over and over. Leda sat beside her and began to talk as though she were not talking to the girl, but to the wall and the curtains and the Venetian blinds.

“When I was ten—_ten_—I was out in the back yard and Jan was sitting there with Dave, the man she was sleeping with then, and he came over to me and felt me. He said, ‘Boy, she’s a nice one!’ and Jan laughed. Jan said, ‘You won’t even stop at kids, you bastard,’ and then they both laughed. You know what I did, Mitch? I laughed too. I’ve been laughing ever since. You should know what I laughed at. You should know some of the goddamn funny jokes I laughed at!”

“Leda, please stop. I started all this. Please stop.”

“Why? Because you don’t want to hear the story of my life? Is it raising the hair on your head, Mitch? You want to know something else? I used to lie in bed and listen at night. We had a bungalow out in L.A. when Jan and I lived there, and Jan’s room was right next to mine. I used to hear them. I used to hear them plain as everything—the springs creaking and the breathing. I used to go crazy listening.”

There was an eeriness about the room and the way Leda looked straight ahead with her eyes fixed and unmoving. Mitch squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting to hear any more, but Leda kept on.

“And Jake! Want to know what Jake did tonight? After Bud announced that the Tri Eps were black-listed, Jake and I got to the house and heard the news. Jake took me back to the car. And after, Mitch, after it was over, Jake said, ‘We’ll find some way to have this, even if I can’t take Tri Eps out. They won’t stop this, baby.’ He didn’t say, ‘The hell with the whole goddamn bunch of them. They can’t keep us apart.’ He said, ‘We’ll find some way to have this.’ But what’s funnier, Mitch—what’s even funnier—was that I felt that way too. I didn’t say it, but I felt it. That’s all I want from him. I hate his guts and it’s all I want from him. Sometimes I don’t even want that and then there’s nothing. I don’t know what I want, Mitch. I’m afraid of what I want.”

She looked at Mitch and she said, “Mitch, that was why I was mad when I first came in the room. Because you brought it out in the open. Because you made the whole thing as goddamn plain as the nose on my face. You caused the trouble—you and that bastard Roberts. Because now the whole damn sorority is black-listed and I’ve got to act as if I care and as if Jake cares and oh, my God, it’s hell. We don’t care. What a laugh!”

Mitch saw Leda’s face, and it was strange and unfamiliar. The features fell apart and they would not unite again. There was the wide, sensuous mouth and the nose and the eyes and the chin and they were like pieces of the puzzle that was Leda’s face that had not been put together. Mitch felt cold and hard, as though this room and this house and this whole new life were a dream and tomorrow she would wake up and her father would say, “What a sleepy-head you are, black-eyed Susan!”

The room was still except for a slight knocking sound that the blinds made in the wind. Leda stood up.

“Sometimes I drink too much,” she said now because it was over, “and I talk like a fool late at night. I’m sorry, Mitch. Forget it, kid, will you?”

Mitch said yes but she knew no. She knew no she would never forget it, not the loneliness that gnawed away at Leda and the way she had said it.

“Tomorrow you go over for your course cards,” Leda said. “Better get some sleep.”

“What do you think they’ll do about what happened?”

“I don’t know, kid. They’ll think of something. Don’t worry about it.”

Mitch pulled her slip over her head and jerked off her brassiere. She stepped into the pants of her pajamas and buttoned the coat.

“I’ll get the light, Leda,” she said, but Leda only looked at her and did not answer. When the room was dark, Leda said, “Mitch, come over and rub my back, will you?”

She sighed then when the large hands came on her body and gently ran over her back. “Mitch,” she said, “I like you. From the first day. You knew that.... Do you hear me, Mitch?”

The room was black and the wind blew and drops of rain fell on the roof and it was tin.

“I hear you, Leda.”

“You looked at me when I was standing by the piano. I’ll never forget that look.”

“I thought you were—beautiful.”

“Now what do you think of me, Mitch? Honestly.”

“I’ve never known anyone like you. I’ve had friends before, you know, school friends. You’re different, though.”

“Do you like to touch me?”

“Yes. I—used to be timid about touching people. I don’t know. When the kids asked me to scratch their backs, I used to dislike it. Now—I like it. With you.”

“The rain sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Want to crawl in with me?”

Mitch didn’t answer. She pulled the covers back and lay beside Leda, taking her hand from her back and turning over to face the other way. When Leda’s arms came around her to hold her, she felt a warm aching that eased into peace and she slept until the rain stopped and the sun came through the blinds in the morning.

* * * * *

Marsha said, “So you see, Mitch, it’s up to you. I know it’s a ridiculous request, but we’ve got to save the reputation of Tri Ep.”

Mitch backed the car into a space in front of the library. Outside it was hot, and even now in the early morning, near ten, the people passing in the streets had a tired, damp look about them. A bespectacled young man dropped his books and stooped to gather them.

“But why?” Mitch turned to Marsha. “Why would Bud Roberts want me to ask him to our housewarming? It doesn’t make sense.”

“All I know is what he told me on the phone. He said, ‘If Susan Mitchell asks me to your housewarming, I’ll forget it.’ That’s what he said.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Listen, Mitch, it’s three weeks away and you won’t have to be alone with him. It’s right at the house, and we’ll all be around. Try to believe me, I know how you feel. I’d never ask you to do it except that we can’t afford an enemy like Sig Delt. If they black-list us, the other fraternities will be too proud to date us too. And after all, Mitch, you did make it pretty messy when you ran to another sorority for help.”

The car was hot and Mitch opened the door. She said, “O.K., I’ll ask him. I better get my course cards. The line’s getting longer by the minute.”

“Thanks, Mitch.” Marsha smiled and touched her hand. “Thank you very much.”

Marsha waited to cross the street while Mitch joined the line, standing behind a tall, angular blond boy. A warm buzz began in Mitch’s stomach when she thought of Leda. She traced an L in the dirt with her foot, and shielded her eyes from the sun with her arm.

The blond boy said, “Hot!”

Mitch nodded. The line inched forward while he talked to her. “Then we’re in three courses together,” he said. “Swell!”

Afterward, as they sipped Cokes slowly in Mac’s, he told her that his name was Charlie Edmonson.

The rain started heavily on the roof of Mac’s and splashed down at the windows. “My car!” Mitch exclaimed. “The windows are down!”

They ran to the door and stood under the awning, watching the rain teem down. “Can’t get to it in this,” he said. “It’ll be a quick one, anyway.”

People in the streets dodged for shelter, and one boy rolled his pants up to his knees and tore off with a newspaper over his head.

“When it lets up,” Mitch said, “maybe I can drop you off. What fraternity are you in?”

“Me?” Charlie pointed to himself, laughing. “I’m not a fraternity boy. Too fancy for an old Kansas farmer.”

“Then you’re an independent,” Mitch said blankly, moving back from the awning where the leak was and the rain came through. She thought of the song they had sung at the Sig Delt house last night, the refrain humming distantly in her ears.

“He’s a goddamn independent,
He’s a G.D.I.
Ignore! Ignore! Ignore the bas-tard!
Ditch the guy,
The G.D.I.”

“I think it’s letting up,” he said. “Want to run for it?”

Chapter Four

It was Thursday, the week of the Tri Epsilon housewarming party, and the leaves on the trees along the streets of Cranston were the way they are in October. Mitch stood in the entrance to Jacob Hall, glancing nervously at her watch, moving up and down from the top step to the second step.

“Sorry, Sue,” Charlie said when he arrived. “Professor Rudolph got talking after class and I couldn’t get away from him.”

“We haven’t got time for a Coke. I have to get back to the house this afternoon.”

They walked along the path to the street while Mitch explained that all pledges had to assist in decorating the house for the party on Saturday. As soon as she had said it, she felt a sudden surge of embarrassment sweep through her. It had been three weeks now that she had been going for Cokes after class with Charlie. He had asked her to go to a movie one Tuesday evening, but the Tri Epsilon pledge study-hall system had started, and pledges could not date on week nights.

“It’s just sort of a housewarming,” she said, hoping it sounded unimportant and dull. Charlie scuffed his feet near the end of the sidewalk where there was a space between the ground and the asphalt. “Could I walk you on home?”

“Certainly.”

Kitten Clark passed them as they turned and she said hello to Mitch and looked at Charlie with a flat expression in her eyes. She had seen Mitch with him before, and she knew that he was an independent. His awkwardness, the plain, loose-fitting clothes, and the conspicuous absence of a fraternity pin pointed out the fact. As yet it was not a matter of concern to Tri Epsilon, because Mitch had not had a week-end date with him, or with anyone else since the trouble with Roberts. On Saturday she would emerge from the cocoon for the housewarming and the date with Bud. It was a complete enigma to Kitten why Roberts even bothered. Perhaps to save face, and more to prove that no girl could hit and run. Not him. She thought of the silverware that Mother Nessy had promised Tri Epsilon if they pledged Susan, and hoped they would have it in time for the buffet dinner on Saturday.

“How come you aren’t driving?”

Mitch hardly heard his question after they had passed Kitten. She was thinking that Kitten would want to know who the boy was and what house he belonged to. She wondered vaguely what Jane Bell would say; if she would say that it was just as easy to have a Coke and walk home with a fraternity man after class, and that it was preferable.

“Independents aren’t lepers,” she had told the pledge class at their last meeting, “but fraternity men are preferable.”

There were fraternity men in all of Mitch’s classes—suave, confident young men whose loafered feet stretched out in the aisles, and whose bold guffaws echoed after the profs’ jokes. They had names like Grey Gregg and Big Tom D. and Rabbit Man and they sat in clumps together. There was something different about them, Mitch thought, something that was not neutral but cold and hot as they willed in their way with others.

“I said, how come you don’t have your car in the lot today?”

“Leda borrowed it. She had to pick up some equipment downtown.”

“Your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“If I had a car, I guess I’d be afraid to let people borrow it. Maybe not. Hard to tell when you’re as far from having a car as I am.”

“Leda’s careful.”

“Must be going to be a big old party at your house Saturday.”

“Pretty big.”

“Just girls?”

“No,” Mitch said. “Boys and girls.”

“I was going to—I have this job downtown at Messer’s Drugstore. Usually work week ends. That’s why I haven’t been able to ask you out. I was going to ask you out Saturday, but—”

They cut across Swampcot Street and waited for the light to change. “Will you ask me some other week end?” Mitch said as they walked on.

“Sure.”

“Because I have a date Saturday.”

When they reached the circular walk to the Tri Epsilon house, Charlie said good-by and handed Mitch the French book he was carrying for her, and he said after he said good-by, “Be good, Sue.”

The Tri Eps were busy trimming the entrance to the dining room in pink and blue streamers and Robin Maurer was polishing the mirror in the hall. She paused when Mitch entered the hall.

“Get lost,” she advised. “They got work around here that would scare an elephant.”

“Looks good. Who’s your date, Robin?”

“Some blockhead. I’ve seen him once. Looks like those prehistoric men in our Soc books.”

“You know who mine is.”

“Yes,” Robin said, wringing out the cloth, “I know. Marsha gave me a little lecture too, all about bowing and scraping to Sig Delt. I don’t know, though. She’s the only one in this bunch I trust.”

“Hey,” Jane Bell called to Mitch. “Change your clothes and pitch in here. We need some work done in the basement if Mother Nessy lets us use it Saturday.”

At a previous Tri Epsilon party, a fraternity man had spent his entire evening and half of the following day on the moth-eaten divan behind the ping-pong table in the Tri Ep cellar. He was very drunk and it had happened last year and Mother Nesselbush had been called on by the Dean of Women to explain the incident. Since then, the basement was termed “off limits” for house parties. This year there was a skinny hope that it would not be a restricted area.

The hope died shortly after Mitch changed into a pair of jeans and headed off in the direction of the back steps. There, congregated in a small mass, Tri Eps faced Mother Nessy. Her answer was a very adamant no, supplemented with the viewpoint that basements encouraged extravagant necking, liquor drinking, which was forbidden, and other “things.”

Leda heard them arguing back there when she drove Mitch’s car in the drive and pulled the packages out. She set them down in the living room and went upstairs. As she took her worn green suede coat off and tossed the matching beret to the top of the closet, she noticed the yellow paper on Mitch’s desk. It was Marsha’s paper. Marsha had reams of this paper, pale lemon-colored onionskin with a small silver initial at the top. The third time this week, Leda realized. Whenever Mitch could not be found, she was down in the suite helping Marsha, or in the evening after closing hours, making cinnamon toast in the kitchen with Marsha, or listening to records with Marsha in the living room. Irritated, Leda glanced at the scrawled words on the yellow paper:

“Want to help me trim the side hall for the party? I’ll meet you there when you’re changed. Love, Marsh.”

“Good God!” Leda said aloud. “Trimming the side hall with _Marsh_. What a great big fat kick that is!”

She stretched out on the bed and shut her eyes. In a persistent, conscious dream, Jake was beside her, his hands on her, her ears filled with the harsh profane words he used. Then, in that crazy state of half awareness, she projected herself into Jake’s ways and saw Mitch, large and muscular, but less strong than Leda, who held onto her. Suddenly she heard the footsteps in the hall and Mitch appeared, shaking the dream, chattering noisily about the decorations, how Marsha had helped her with her French assignment, and what Mother Nessy had said about the basement.

“Mitch,” Leda said, breaking in, “who’s the guy?”

“What?”

“They say you’re hanging around with some guy after classes.”

“Oh, Charlie. He’s in a couple of my classes.”

“Like him?”

“Sure.”

Leda blew the smoke from her cigarette toward the ceiling. Mitch thought it was time now for the harangue on independents if Leda knew, and if not, it would be time after she asked and knew then.

“Why don’t you ask him to come Saturday? Tell Roberts to go jump and ask him.”

“I can’t. Marsha asked me to do this. Leda, you know why I had to ask Roberts.”

“That’s Marsha’s idea. Listen, kid, don’t be pushed around. Marsha could have settled it some other way.”

“But I thought,” Mitch said, confused, “I thought it was the only choice I had. I don’t understand you now, Leda.”

“You understand Marsha, apparently.”

Mitch sat down on the bed and tried to reason why Leda was afraid again, almost as she had been that night. Weeks had passed and Leda had seemed aloof and busy, with Jake all the time, and tired in the evening. Now this, and Leda was angry.

“Charlie is an independent,” Mitch said, “so he wouldn’t be a good date to bring anyway.”

“Charlie?”

“The boy you said I should ask instead of Roberts.”

Leda searched in the bookcase for her Spanish text, and finding it, she grabbed her coat. “I’ve got work to do,” she said. “I can’t think about it all the time. Do you hear me, Mitch? I can’t think about it all the time!”

Mitch didn’t say anything.

“Marsha! I’m so sick of hearing that girl’s name. You think she’s God, don’t you? You think that girl is God?”

Mitch reached in the drawer beside her bed and found the nail polish. She was wearing it regularly now, bright red, and her nails were growing long and tapered.

Leda stood before her waiting for an answer but it did not come. She said, “I thought you were my friend. I thought you cared about me because no one else had ever given a damn. No friend. Jake cares for his own damn reasons and Jan doesn’t care. The two J’s in my life. J for junk. But I thought you gave a damn and I ran around pouring my heart out telling you things. Then you run to Marsha when you have a problem and you do what Marsha says.”

“I haven’t.” Mitch’s voice cracked. “I talk to her because she’s president.”

“President! President of what? Of the world? Of the United States of America? I laugh my fool head off at her being president.”

“I don’t know what to say, Leda. I don’t know why you’re mad all of a sudden.”

Leda shook her head and walked out of the room, slamming the door. She walked down the hall and the steps and out the door to the street, and she knew why it was this way. She knew. Before she had thought she knew, and she had erased it like a pencil mark on a sheet of new paper. It came back. And Susan Mitchell, of all those it might have been, and the way she was, like a baby.

Mitch watched her from the window until she was out of sight. Across the street the Delta Pi’s were staging a song practice on their side lawn. In even rows of more than a dozen, they faced their white-flanneled leader and sang out in fine, gruff voices. They were singing the Cranston football team’s “Fight Song,” and listening to them, Mitch thought that this was the way she had pictured college. This singing, and the fall leaves outside, and the hazy questions in her mind about the French translation and the English composition, and no Leda or Bud Roberts—nothing like that. Still, there were Leda’s eyes, and the deep blue tinge of hurt that had shown when she left like that.

* * * * *

The housewarming was to begin immediately after the football game, and that Saturday afternoon the Tri Eps had gone in a body to the stadium. It was the first home game of the year, and tradition brought together the fervid assemblage of fraternity brothers and sorority sisters in solid blocks throughout the grandstands. To Mitch, it was a bewitching spectacle, with the lively mass of people and the beat of the drums in the uniformed band parading down the field. Robin Maurer sat beside her. Of all the pledges, Robin was the one whom Mitch knew and liked best. The others seemed to be absorbed into the whole, with no particular individual traits of their own. Sissy Callahan and Bebe Duncan and Jett Duquette and Travis King, all somehow alike, with the same neutrality toward you as the fraternity men’s. Most of them wore their hair long, curled loosely, their faces tinted with the popular liquid powder base they all used. Their arms were caparisoned with silver bracelets, and their shoes varied only from loafers to saddle shoes and saddle shoes to loafers and they called everyone darling. That was together. Alone, there was Sissy’s brother who flew transatlantic flights and had been married four times. Bebe Duncan’s father was an author and his books were dedicated always “To B. and Bebe,” because her mother’s name was Beatrice. Jett Duquette was named after the race horse her uncle made his first million on. And Travis King had false teeth, which only made her more beautiful and which she talked about, often, in mixed company.

They sat there, too, with Robin and Mitch. But Robin was the one that counted. When the whistle blew and the football sailed off in the air, Mitch leaned forward and drank in the movements on the field below. The cheering and the songs and the tense moments near the goal line caught her up and carried her with them. Once Leda turned around from the row down in front of her and winked at Mitch. She saw the excitement on Mitch’s face, the red, ruddy look to her cheeks, and the eyes shining as though she had fever. Mitch was happy then. It was their first exchange after yesterday’s quarrel. There was something in the look that meant, “All right, it’s all right,” and Leda was beautiful, looking up like that and laughing.

During the half Marsha called down to Mitch and Robin to come up and sit with her. She was munching a hot dog, and some of the boys from Delta Pi had crawled under the ropes and were standing there chatting with her. Mitch and Robin scrambled up and joined them, and they met Ted and Lucifer, the two Delta Pis. When the band struck up the “Fight Song,” the five of them roared out the words, and Mitch laughed at the way Lucifer sang, deep and loud like a bass drum.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re laughing at me.”

The whistle blew and she sat down beside him for the next quarter. “I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, “somewhere that smells vaguely of formaldehyde.”

“Gosh,” Mitch exclaimed, “that’s right! Lab! You’re in my zoology lab.”

“No, no!” He smiled, tipping his black and gold fraternity cap. “You’re in _my_ zoology lab. Remember, I am Lucifer.”

Mitch saw Leda looking back, searching for her, craning her neck and peering over the heads of the others to the seats Robin and Mitch had deserted. Mitch did not know why she leaned down and pretended to tie her shoe, so that Leda wouldn’t see her. She did not know why, but she knew that it was better. Better not to have her see.

“Walk you home,” Lucifer said, after the game was won and elated students jumped about in the bleachers, hugging one another and singing out in husky choruses. “You’re a neighbor, that’s why. I only walk neighbors home. Hate foreigners from other streets.”

Lucifer jabbered on about nothing and Mitch liked him. He was a short boy with huge thick glasses and an unbelievably short haircut. Mitch was taller than he was and he would not let her forget it, but the way he joked and the way he talked charmed Mitch.

“You’re taller,” he said, “and so you undoubtedly consider your length a blight on your whole day. Because why? Because Lucifer said he would walk you home. Because Lucifer is very tiny and prefers that his women be very tiny. And furthermore because you have a feeling you are going to fall madly in love with Lucifer. But never mind. Lucifer has a soul. It is very possible that he will make a little room in his life for you from time to time.”

Mitch laughed. “Thanks,” she said. “Any time you want me to reach up and hammer a nail in that’s over your head....”

“My dear girl,” Lucifer said, “a much funnier way of saying the same thing would have been to say, ‘Call me when you can’t reach the hatrack.’ You see? Something simpler than what you said, though much the same essence.”

Outside the Tri Epsilon house, cars were lined up and horns were blowing. The chairs on the lawn were filling up with young men, and Tri Eps were hurrying up the walk to join them.

“I understand you’re warming your house tonight,” Lucifer said. “Some of our boys were invited.”

“Yes. I’m sorry you won’t be here.”

“Then ask me.”

Mitch laughed. “I have a date, Lucifer.”

“Where?”

“I don’t see him now,” Mitch said, looking the crowd over, “but he’ll be here.”

“Well, I tell you what. I’ll wait with you until he comes. It’ll be O.K. Tell him I’m your brother. Tell him I’m a gnome. He won’t care. And when he comes, poof! Disappearing act.”

She hesitated, but realized it was no use. Lucifer was determined. Together they made their way up to the porch, and Mitch went in to get him a glass of punch. On her way to the kitchen she met Marsha, and she explained that Lucifer had insisted on staying until Bud came. Marsha smiled and answered that she couldn’t see how it would hurt anything. Then Mitch rejoined Lucifer and waited for Bud to come.

At seven o’clock Lucifer said, “It was a very delicious buffet, my little gazelle. Ah, your date—he’s coming tonight?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said, thinking of the humiliation of being stood up, of having Lucifer here to witness it, and Tri Eps passing with their dates, looking to see if Mitch and Bud were getting along well, and Bud not there at all.

“You don’t seem distressed.”

“I’m not, really. I don’t like it, of course. But I don’t care for him either.”

Lucifer said, “But he’s tall. I suppose he’s very, very tall.”

“Quite tall, yes. Taller than I am.”

“Ah, me,” Lucifer sighed. “Vanity. Vanity, vanity.”

Inside the group was singing “My Gal Sal.” Mitch shivered, and thought about forgetting the housewarming and going up to bed, or taking Lucifer inside and forgetting Bud. Then, to punctuate her thoughts, there was a sharp voice: “Hey, Susan Mitchell!”

Bud Roberts was coming up the walk, carrying a box under his arm, smiling and talking in a loud voice. “Hi there. I know I’m late.”

“Bright boy,” Lucifer said, rising, bowing, and moving away. “A commanding personality, that boy!” he said as he walked toward the sidewalk.

“Who’s that?”

“Lucifer. I don’t know his last name.” Mitch didn’t stand up or look up at him. Inside she was seething with anger.

“Look, let me explain it. I was late for a good reason.”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to get you just the right kind of flower,” he said, tearing the ribbon off the box and presenting her with an orchid. A brown orchid. Mitch stared. She stood up and stepped back from the flower, as though it would shatter if she were to go near it. It was beautiful.

“Forgive me?” he asked.

Mitch nodded.

“For everything, I mean, for everything! Let’s make this a peace offering.”

She took his arm after he pinned the orchid on, and they went into the house, where couples were dancing on the dining-room floor, which had been cleared of the tables.

“Got any punch?” Bud asked, and she led him back to the kitchen. He pulled a leather flask from his back pocket. “I want a shot in mine,” he said. “How about you?”

“Put it away, Bud! It’s not allowed.”

Bud Roberts threw his head back and laughed. He reached for Mitch’s hands and he said, “You know what? You’re the first really innocent girl I’ve ever met. You’re really innocent, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “but I know liquor isn’t allowed.”

Kitten Clark and her date rushed into the kitchen. They were howling over something and Kitten grabbed his head and bit his ear. “Take that,” she said, “and let it be a lesson.” Bud offered them a drink, and Mitch felt the blood rise in her head when she saw Kitten pour a large shot into her punch glass. Kitten sensed Mitch’s shock, and she said, “Look, it’s O.K. as long as Nessy doesn’t get wise. So take it easy.” Her date took a straight swig from the bottle, and laughing again, they left the kitchen door swinging back and forth behind them.

“Here,” Bud said. “I’ll give you a light shot. This doesn’t taste bad, like beer. You won’t get sick.”

Tired of being wrong all the time, Mitch let him “fix” her punch, and they joined the others. Marsha beamed at Bud and came rushing over to him, holding his hand for minutes after she shook it, smiling and saying nice things. Then others came—Jane Bell and Skip and Mother Nessy and, at last, Leda.

“Hi,” she said to Roberts, Jake standing beside her, a sly, lopsided grin on his face. Roberts shook their hands and when he held Leda’s he did something to make Leda pull her hand away, and wipe it on her skirt and sneer at him half-smiling. “You never forget.”

“Like an elephant,” he said, “just like an elephant.”

“Someday you’re going to forget and you won’t have any personality. You’ll be a dope without your dirty jokes and your coy gestures.”

Mitch shuddered to think what would follow, but Bud Roberts only stuck his hands in his pockets and looked admiringly at Leda. “You’re the only girl who can deliver an insult,” he said, “and still be a duchess. A mean duchess, though.”

Jake took Leda’s arm. “Cool off, Roberts,” he said. “Cut your line, or pull your bait in.”

Bud and Mitch danced and she found him easy to talk to and friendly. He kept getting her more punch, and each time putting a little more whisky in the glass, and telling her it was all right and that she wouldn’t feel it. But she did. She felt light and happy and once or twice she touched his arm and said something complimentary to him. She said, “You’re nice, Bud,” and “You know, you look very nice tonight, Bud.” He squeezed her close when they were dancing and she could feel his warm breath near her ears. She thought that their misunderstanding was a foolish, silly thing and that they had never understood one another until now. Now she was the lady her father wanted her to be and this was the ball and Bud Roberts was a gentleman.

The orchestra that Tri Epsilon had hired was a small combo that played half an hour out of every hour. Then they staged a gala intermission, during which the orchestra members raced to the kitchen to refuel themselves with many bottles of assorted liquors. Mother Nessy permitted the musicians to have “alcoholic refreshments,” so there could be no suspicion on her part if she were to enter the kitchen and see a young man pouring a drink. He was merely “servicing” the hired musicians. During intermission there were scores of young men occupied this way.

“That kitchen’s a mess,” Roberts said, “and the porch is jammed. How about sitting in your car?”

Mitch felt lively and excited and she said, “Yes, that’d be fun.”

When he kissed her she did not mind the kiss. She snuggled up close to him and laughed at nothing.

“You feel good, don’t you?” he said.

“Yes.”

He kissed her again, and this time her mouth was forced open and she was hurt from his teeth and she drew back.

“Listen,” he said, “you’ve never been kissed much that way, have you?”

“No.”

“Let me show you something,” he said. “Let me show you how nice it can be.”

The back door of the car opened and Marsha stood there with her date, a large, happy-looking boy. “Can we sit this out with you?” she said. “Every place is filled.”

Marsha’s date was Ken, and he impersonated professors and they laughed for a while, but Bud did not laugh enthusiastically. Ken heard the music when it started, later, after they had talked together, and Marsha said, “Well, let’s all go back. There’s going to be a pinning. Jim Keeler is going to pin Kitten tonight.”

A huge circle formed in the dining room and Jim Keeler stood in the center, his arm around Kitten’s waist. From the side lines, Mother Nessy beamed as the girls sang the “Sweetheart Song.” When it was finished, the orchestra played “I Love You Truly,” and Jim pinned his large fraternity pin on Kitten’s bosom. Then they danced and the others joined in.

“C’mon,” Bud said to Mitch, “let’s get some punch in the kitchen.”

The kitchen was empty and Bud poured a large shot of whisky into Mitch’s drink. “Susan Mitchell,” he said, holding his glass high, “the picture of innocence.”

The taste was gone and Mitch drank easily. Bud came to her and kissed her and his hand went down to her skirt. “No,” he said when she started to squirm away, “just wait a minute. Wait a minute now, Susan Mitchell, just let me alone for a minute. Feels good, doesn’t it?” he said, and Susan Mitchell shut her eyes and the room was going around in grand yellow and red circles. He helped her down the steps and it was still and musty, but he talked all the way. When he found the light switch, he turned it on once and then off again quickly. He led her over to the couch near the ping-pong table.